White noise
by Autumn Night Hymn
Summary: John Watson has been dead for two years. One day he wakes up to hear he has been resurrected. But by whom and for what reason? Rating goes up somewhere in the middle of the series. Johnlock.
1. Study on heart: Resurrection

"Mind does not feel sorrow, if for it happiness is unknown. Heart does not weep for those who are unable to call for its sympathy. No being grieves for the blood of fish, but tears may fall, for bird stolen from its wing's. Blessed are those, who have voice."

Simple, undeniable truth, prove of live. Heart beat. Like he had never felt anything like that, so strong, like his whole existence was about that rhythm. The sound of it echoed in his chest, calling back distant memories, more dream like, than something that had actually happened. Images of nightmare, that has never been more than blurry vision trough closed lids. It makes mind question reality itself, but at the same time it tells him, that he had consiousness, and he was really here. Where ever this 'there' was.

From somewhere so far, that it might as well be forgotten more easily, than be worth of trying to call it closer, he received this disturbance in created, fragile peace of mind. Something, too amorphous to be named as a thought, still at the same time more reliable than a simple feeling. If he'd wanted to name it, he would call it... War. That word would be enough to include all of it. Loss, pain, fear, blood, loyalty, courage, damage, heat... Death.

That was right, he shouldn't be alive... His body wouldn't move, it simply kept breathing, heart in his chest, beating, blood in his veins, flowing. His mind suddenly felt like a stranger in this body, that didn't seem to take any orders from it. Another memory flashed trough his so called vision, but more than see it, he could hear it. It was a tale like thing, about a soul, that was caged into already death body. Comforting...

Suddenly there was violent pulse of pain, inside his suffering, he recalled that he had felt something similar to this once, no, identical. Then he was drowning, unable to breath, unable to move a muscle to do something about it. It was only natural, he was supposed to be dead, this mistake that he was still somehow here, must be corrected. He surrendered to the pain, to the feeling of slipping away, last time he had fought, it had been in vain. An honor of death was a lie, it was just dying, nothing more. It was funny, how his heart kept beating, like it still had will to live that he himself lacked.

Just when his consciousness was about to dismiss, he heard a voice. It was magical, like his ears had just started working for the first time. It was the most beautiful voice he had ever heard, his mind could only think, that it must belong to an angel that came to get him. Even thought he couldn't make sense into the words, he felt peace, satisfaction and then, a touch, like a first his skin had ever really received, and it resurrected him, blew life into him, his mind his body, and he gasped for air, suddenly able to breath.

His eye's shoot open, first it was so white, so bright, that he couldn't see anything, it burned. Then, darkness started slowly closing around him, blurring his vision, narrowing it away from the corners. He tried to blink, it was a natural reflex, but it didn't really help, he couldn't chase those shadows away. Then, just before everything disappeared again, he received his first vision. Eyes. There was no blue that he had ever seen, that could match that blue, now in front of him. Depths of ocean, heights of bright sky, and mysteries of darkening nights, all of it trapped in those eye's, you could loose your soul in there, he though, and then... There was nothing, but a lightness of a feather in his sleep.

Time does not wait for anyone. He wasn't even sure was it hours, days or months, he prayed it wasn't years, that passed by while he wasn't able to catch up with anything. From time to time, he heard voices, or was able to think, but nothing more there really was, he was in darkness, with just a faint memory, that felt more alive than anything else. Blue eyes, vision of them seemed to be painted to the black canvas of his mind and vision. He had realised long time ago, at least it felt really long, that he would never be able to recreate what he had seen back then.

His will to stay alive, if this current state of his was worthy to be called that, it waved, but he hadn't felt that kind of surrendering again. He more like accepted what was happening, cause he had no choice. And he was unable to let go, before he had seen those eyes again. One day, he had started to count his moments of clarity as days, according to his current count; he had been a live for two weeks. One of those days, he had heard music, violin, played so well that it almost made his cry by every note.

Sometimes he felt pinches, or touches, and there was always this mechanical sound, that seemed somehow familiar. It took him almost week to realize, what was going on. He was probably in some kind of hospital, he was surrounded by life supervision systems and he was kept in coma chemically, most likely he had been in major surgery, cause such thing was usually recommended to recover from that kind of operations. After that conclusion, he realized he must have been a doctor.

Pieces slowly fell on their places, he had lots of time to think, and so that was what he did. He still wasn't able to remember his name, but he could pretty much remember everything else. He had a younger sister, Harriet, parents still alive, he had been graduated as a doctor, and he had served in war. He had been shot to chest twice in one combat, on his third year of service. After that it was pretty much blank before his reawakening. He assumed he had been moved to some hospital, because of the fatalness of his injuries, he was lucky to be alive.

And then, came a day, when he really woke up. No annoying beeps of machine, that kept supervising his vitals, no oxygen mask, no pinches, no violin... No blue of those eyes. He had come to conclusion, that he must have been hallucinating them; paranormal experiences were common during major surgeries.

But now, he was crystal clear, more awake than he remembered he had ever been. He opened his eyes. Ready to face the reality, damn, he longed to face it. White sealing, he took a moment for simply looking at it, he felt a smile climb on his lips. He lifted his hands up, and looked at them, he almost teared at the sight, his hands, his own hands, he recognized every shape, scar, everything. He touched his face, the same face he remembered. It felt utterly joyful. He existed, he was really here.

When the bliss of being alive, being real, finally passed that much that he was able to think straight, he started to investigate his own body more clearly. He was just the same as he remembered, just the scar on his chest was new, it was big, like his whole chest had been torn open, but it was cut clean, and nicely patched up. It was already so old that it didn't have bandages to cover it, just some scar tape. State of his wound lead him to the conclusion that he had been in coma about two months. That made him wonder why was he able to move this effortlessly. But he really didn't question it that much, he was just glad about it.

After a while, he dared to carefully stand up from his narrow, yet comfortable bed, to investigate the room. He was stunned a moment for the feel of standing on his own two feet. He soon realized that there was absolutely nothing interesting in this room. The small toilet in the left corner didn't keep him amused for long, it was just a normal, only disturbingly clean, hospital toilet. Everything was white, his pants were white, yes he only had pants, wall, sealing, door. He suspected that it would annoy him after a moment.

He saw a surveillance camera above a locked door when he went to try and open it. That was when he realized that he was being watched. It was understandable, most people were a little unstable after huge operations, and coma. Caution was logical, especially with a soldier, brought in straight from the battlefield. But, he still didn't like it. He backed up a little and waved at the camera. He figured that who ever was monitoring him, would likely be able to hear his voice, and when he realized he could speak, he couldn't hold back the urge to do so.

"Hello? I am awake, and I can assure you I feel very stable, physically and mentally. I would much appreciate if someone would come here and talk with me, I guess I have a right to ask some questions, right?" He felt kind of silly talking to the camera, but he kept his voice even and calm, just in case that his supervisors would have a behavior psychologist behind the camera, it too, was likely.

It didn't take more than few minutes, for a speaker beside the door started to rattle, and there came a pleasant, kind of shy woman voice, asking him to take two steps back and stay as calm as possible. John did as told, and kept his eyes on the door as it opened. He figured it must be electronic lock. When a slim, young woman stepped in, closing the door behind her, John was almost sure he saw pale, tall figure behind her back, but he didn't have time to look again, as the door closed.

John looked at the woman, she wasn't exactly a beauty, but her being gave an instant image of kindness. She had a long white coat, brownish hair, rust seemed like a right word to describe it, and brownish green eyes. She lifted a shy, a bit nervous smile on her narrow lips. "Good morning, my name is Molly Hooper. " She said breezily and offered her hand for a shake. John reached his hand to take hers. It felt nice, the warmness of another living being. "Nice to meet you miss Hooper, I'm sorry, but I can't quite yet remember my name", he admitted.

On the other side of the camera, sharp, blue eyes were monitoring every movement, listening to every word said in that room. Long, pale fingers were pressed against equally pale chin and shapely, full lips. Molly's voice echoed from the speaker just a little late from the movement of her lips.

"That is unfortunate, I'm sorry, I'm really no good with explaining things, I'm afraid the person who can answer your questions will come visit you a little later. I am here to check how you are doing, just basic stuff, if you don't mind"

Watcher was just a little surprised how well his patient handled this situation that would make most people more than very nervous. He just smiled and co-operated. He supervised how Molly performed basic physical examination on the man. Results seemed to come out better than expected, he felt victorious, almost unable to hold his excitement. It wouldn't be such along wait, until he would get his turn to examine that man...

He picked up his phone from the pocket of a long dark jacked hanging from his left, and started typing a text. His bright, blue eye's never left that mans face on the monitor screen, he had never been this interested, and this exited in his live.

Come at this instant if convenient,

and even if not, come anyway.

- SH

Time had moved slowly in his sleep, things had seemed to stay in place, like they were waiting, and he had got used in that dream like reality. This one, where he had woken into, was so sharp, and it moved so fast. It felt like he had jumped into a rollercoaster and couldn't get off the ride. So all he could do was just to try and hang on to the carriage that dashed forward on the rails. Toward some unknown destination, he wasn't even sure he wanted to reach.

That feeling was all created by this man that had come into the white room, into his little world to crack apart the reality he had built. He was tall, slim guy in a suit, carrying an umbrella like it was a sword. He had named himself as Mycroft Holmes, and around him hung this feel of importance.

"... My name is John Hamish Watson. Doctor." He mumbled again, keeping his gaze on the file that Mycroft had handed to him, that file was his life on the paper. Name still didn't sound familiar to his ears, but everything he had remembered matched the information this file was holding, so he figured it was a real deal. From there it went surrealistic.

"And you are absolutely serious, when you tell me that it is year 2012, not 2010. And that I... Died in service two years ago?" It sounded so ridiculous that it made him fear that it was the truth. The tall man in a suit looked at him straight in the eyes and there was no sign of joking, or lying in that gaze.

"Yes John, you were shot in the chest, twice. Your heart stopped after 12 hours of the impact, you were declared death, died in an action. According to your wishes, your family gave your body to the science. I was there when your body was chosen for the purposes of this department. And now, you are alive, woken from the death. You can ask about the details from your... Surgeon. When he manages to get in proper contact with you." Mycroft stated, his voice was pure facts and business.

It felt like the whole room was spinning around him. He was so full of questions that it felt like he was reshaping into a question mark, but he couldn't get his mouth open to ask any of them. He realized he was in a shock. "I assume you understand that technically you have been pushing up the daisies for two years now. You can't return to the life you used to live." That was when he passed out.

Soon his life became routines, boring routines. Molly came in every day, to do his health check and tell him, with the kind voice of hers, how well he was doing. And most of those times, they had nice converstations, but Molly carefully kept her lips sealed for any information.

Then his breakfast was brought, like a clock work, by little older and rounder woman, who refused to talk to him, no matter how many times, he said thanks, and asked how she was doing. She delivered all his meals, he had four of them every day, and they were very nice. Every other day he had some deserts added. And he always ate it all, cause he knew with out Molly saying, that right amount of nutrition was importand for his recovery.

Between lunch and afternoon tea, he had a talk with his behavior psychologist trough the speaker and camera. Apparently Andresson didn't trust his mental state enough to actually enter the room, even if he had given permission for other people to do so. That and other things man said, made john guestion his logic most of the time.

And most of the time he was alone, used it exorcising by Molly's instructions, and reading those few books she had given him. Sometimes he had this feeling that someone was constantly observing him trough the camera, like he was some kind of labrat.. Well he guessed he was, in more than one way, but he still didn't like it. He was a human, if they were going to stare at him and poke him with a stick, they might as well tell him.

He also observed his surgery scar, cause that was almost the most fascinating thing he had to do here, since he really didn't want to use rest of his time weeping after what he no longer had, like personal privacy. He was really healing nicely, and physically he felt great. He had been right about one thing, the whiteness of this room was starting to drive him insane.

Andresson had asked him to keep a diary about everything that was happening to him. It was supposed to help him sort things out. And as he againg just stared the empty pages, he wondered just how Andresson expected him to write something into that freaking notebook, since there was absolutely nothing happening to him?

He settled with counting days, Molly had helped him to start. And when he woke up this morning, three weeks came full of since he had woken up in this room. That day, he had his first ever panic attact, and some male nurses he didn't recall seeing before, dashed in, pushing him down. He was injected with relacine, and his consiosness flashed off.

When he came back to his consciousness after, what the guessed few hours, he was in completely different place. He was laying on a couch, in a really messy living room kind of place. He almost jumped up, gazing around him like a wild, frightened animal. His brain were whispering him hoping words, that it had all been a dream. Then he realized something really odd. This place was his apartment from Bakers Street. 221B, there was no doubt about it, all his things were right there, it just seemed like someone, with no sense of decoration and how to organize things had moved in while he had been gone.

He let out a laughter of relievement, when his first, natural conclusion to familiar surrounding was, relievemnt, and believe that all the horrow he has felt had been just a nightmare. Then he realised what he had on. The same, white pants, he remebembered too well, and his bubble was bursted broken.

He was just about to speak out his mind, when he heard a voice, deep, beautiful voice, he recognized from the first, stretching note. "I assume that your reaction means you like it? I certainly did, and I decided to move in", the voice spoke.

John turned over on his seat, to meet the source of that voice. It was a seemingly tall man, even if his posture was a bit funny and made it hard to tell, and pale, like he hadn't seen sunlight in quite a while. He had dark clothes, denim jeans, a blue blouse and a black jacket, that made him seem even slimmer than he was. Those long, kind of delicate fingers of his were pressed against his chin and lips.

John tough that he hasn't most likely ever seen such a sharp cheekbones than the ones of that man, all his features were kind of delicate, despite their sharpness, and that complex face was framed by dark, messy curls. John's though was that he had never seen someone like this man this close in real life. That kind of thing belonged in the pages of some of those fanzy magazines.  
He had never liked that kind of faces, which had too much strong features..

But what really made him unable to turn his gaze away, were the man's eyes. They were The eyes. The blue from his time between reality and dream. All kind of things circled around his head, and from all kind of things he could have chosen to be his first words to this man, he had mistaken in an angel that had come to take him to heaven, he chose to say this. "What the hell have you done to my apartment?"

That sharp, inhumanly sharp and blue gaze never left his, when the man spoke again, with a hint of amusement in his voice. "This isn't your apartment, this is a look alike I had made for your comfort, and judging from your reaction towards it, I made a really good job while designing it. And like I said, I liked this place so I decided to move in, with you." He said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. John just stared at him. "Who the hell are you?" he blurted out when his vocal nerves finally returned from the edge of permanent paralyzing.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes."

It seemed like this reality thought that everything needed to be even more confusing. John felt like he had gone to sleep in a normal world, and then woken up, just to find himself thrown into wonderland or freakish science fiction slash horror movie or something as retarded. He didn't even like science fiction.

He had pinched himself more than once, he hadn't woken up from this dream, but that didn't convince him that this was actually real. With every chance he had he tried to escape this reality. It just couldn't be real. Died two years ago, resurrected from there, no one hadn't even explained how that was possible. No way of returning back to normal live, copy of his apartment, and now a freaking supermodel telling him that they lived together.

"It seem that it is difficult for you to handle all this new information. I tough that we managed to avoid brain damage, maybe I was mistaken." Said Sherlock's soft voice, with a wondering tone. He felt those unrealistic eyes on himself, and he was suddenly feeling really irritated, to the point where his confusement and fear faded further to the background. "Brain damage? Are you serious? Any normal humanbeing would feel what I am feeling now after what I have been through. Are you retarded?" He retorted and gazed the other man under his together pulled eyebrows.

Sherlock sat on the arm of one of the couches, knees close to his chest and feets on the seat. It irritated John even further, that the other man had shoes on, and that couch at least looked like one of his furnitures. But he swallowed his anger, it felt more urgent to know more about his current situation. Knowing the enemy, was a fight half won, and this one was about to tell something.

"I like that determination in your eyes right now, there is the soldier you are supposed to be. I assume that now you are ready to receive some new information. I don't want to push your confused, lazy little brain too far, but there are things you need to know just for plain surviving in this new surroundings." Sherlock seemed to talk faster than more humans were able to think, that might be the reason for the things, that what he had said cleared to John after Sherlocks mouth had already stopped moving. He had the kind of way with words, that what ever he seemed to say, meant more than the actual contence of sentence, and John assumed it made, more than often, people want to to hit him.

John bit his teeth together and nodded, putting meaningly aside all the insults hidden in between those few lines. It seemed most likely that his fist would be forced to have a serious conversation with that face on one of these days, but now wasn't the time. There was a ghost of a self-satisfied grin on Sherlock s lips, but it disappeared before John was sure of what he saw. That was for the best, with no doubt.

"First of all, you and this appartment, are currently inside of an government research laboratory. This is now, your home. And you, who officially are a corpse, have no human rights. Soon there will be a handler named for you, which in simple terms means a babysitter, to take care of you. And I sincerely pity you, cause she is one of the most irritating life forms I have ever met, even if you count in mosquitoes and babies." Now this feeling was already familiar, the wave of simple horror and disbelief in this moments realisticality. No human rights, a handler. "You are no longer Dr. John Watson, you are now, subject 01. The heart."

After those words he went numb. Sherlock didn't explain any further, he didn't ask more. He didn't want to know, and that what he had been told, he wanted to simply forget. He just sat there, on the couch that seemed and felt so familiar, and he just felt empty, like the white room he had been hold in was now in his mind. It was kind of funny, to be resurrected from death just to learn that your life was over.


	2. Study on heart: Battlefield

John Watson, that was his name, and currently, he had also been specified as a subject 1, the heart. His brains were still tangled for the information he had received not so long ago. He still didn't quite understand the whole situation he was now into, even though he had by now formed a blurry picture of it. The heart? Just thinking about it made his finger rose unconsciously on the end of his scar that almost reached the soft hollow between his collarbones.

What about his heart? It had became clear that something extraordinary had been done to it, since it had survived a two straight impacts of bullets, and seemed to be the cause for all that was circling around him. He hadn't seen Sherlock again; actually he hadn't seen anyone after he had fallen into emotional coma. Once his brains had started to work again, handling all the shock more or less successfully, he had wondered around his newly created apartment, trying to spot things that wouldn't add up, and just to enjoy all the colours and shaped he had missed so much while being kept in that white cage.

Putting aside stuff that were obviously Sherlock's, there really wasn't anything that would give in he difference between this, and the real one. Eventually he gave in, and forced himself to relax, it wasn't as hard as he had supposed. He poured himself a nice cup of tea and sat down into his favourite armchair, that Sherlock had violated, and picked up one book from the shelf, and damn that he felt good for being able to do that. When he was in the middle of the book, that really wasn't that interesting, and that he faintly remembered reading once before, back until he had died, he started to feel really tired, and he gave into it with out a fight. His bedroom looked exactly like he remembered it, everything was on its place, and everything was familiar.

He assumed he fell asleep before his head hit the pillow. He must have seen dreams, and most likely nightmares, but he didn't remember them in the morning. It was just sleep, deep and calm. "Yes, I am still sure of my decision. Please, stop questioning me before you start sounding like Andersson, one of him is enough to deal with for the life time, and I will cut my ties with you if you keep that up, cause two of the same kind would definitely lower the IQ of the personnel in whole building and that would be for good." Sherlock talked to the phone, sounding really bored. "You interfered with my subject, and just look at what it lead into. Let me handle this, like we originally agreed." He had hard time to get down to listen what the person in the other end of the call had to say. He disassembled his frustration into walking in circle.

Now that he tough about it the third time today, he really did like the way this apartment had come together. "No, I haven't told him much more than you did when you visited him with that file. Yes, They'll meet tomorrow then, why do you feel need to tell me unimportant things? "Blue eye's were rolled, in a simple gesture of questioning his brothers brain function again, before lids closed on them. "What ever. I do not care as long as your doings do not come on the way of my research. Goodbye Mycroft." He hung up before another word was received from the speaker.

He opened his eyes, and turned around to stare at the door, behind which, his subject was now sleeping. Everyone in the building were still amazed by this achievement, it had almost surprised himself as well. The power of the god, in his head and hands. A power to resurrect those, who death has taken as it's own. He wanted to think that he had surpassed HIM with this; in ways he had, but not quite, not yet. If he could still have proves to support his impossible theory, then, then surpassing wouldn't be questioned.

He called back the moment, the exact second he had seen the body of this man for the first time. When the life of John Watson had been unlocked by his eye's, by the science of deduction, he had known, with out a doubt. He had found the heart, the one. Sherlock reached his fingers toward the door, and then it happened first time in a long time. Ghost of pain danced trough his nerves, making his hand flinch, like he had touched something hot, and he glared at his hand. An hour might already be later that what he had thought...

John woke up to the noise from behind his bedroom door. He didn't have that moment of confusion. Right after the dream is broke, when you don't know what had happened, or where you were. He was crystal clear, and now, that he had calmed down and had some good night sleep on top of that, he had realised that he really had plenty of questions, demanding to get some answers.

He was, again, bitted in the ass by surprise, when he realised just who was he seeing in the middle of his, and currently apparently Sherlock's, living room when he opened the door. It was his old landlady, back from the original bakers street. Mrs Hudson. John was forced to blink his eyes more than twice. Before he was able to accept that he had really woken up. Older woman lifted her head from papers in her hands and looked at him.

She didn't seem surprised at all. "Good morning dear, did you sleep well?" She asked, like two years hadn't passed, and like he just hasn't walked back from death. Well, maybe she looked happier to see him that she would have if this had been just any typical day from back then. Sherlock, who laid on the couch, relaxed like a pleased cat, lifted his head from the magazine that he had been reading, John didn't even bother to wonder where it had came from, or when the other man had came back. Their eye's met, and Sherlock made a look that was clearly accusing john of being rude to the older woman. John didn't know how was he expected to react, so he did the thing that felt most natural.

"Good Morning, I slept like a newborn baby, thanks for asking." He replied, receiving a approving, almost smile from the other man. John noticed that his gaze was totally stolen by Sherlock, so he purposely forced it to face the woman instead. Mrs, Hudson hadn't changed a day. She had the same, short, curly, reddish hair that had been little worn out by the years, and same, kind face. "So.. Why are you cleaning my room?" Yes, that was the most important thing to ask.

For some reason he felt little embarrassed, and annoyed at the same time, when Sherlock seemed to be amused by his actions. And then he realised that he was staring at the blue eye's man, again. Woman made this little gesture with her hands, like she always did when she wasn't quite pleased with something, but not actually mad either." It's this Sherlock; he is such a messy boy. You should tell him to keep things in better order John." She chatted cheerfully. She hassled like a mother around his precious boy, John couldn't help wondering when had that happened, and there came more questions into his list. "Well you are my housekeeper." Sherlock said when John claret at him.

And the man had a nerve to look at him disapproving, when he was the one laying on the couch all spoiled, and let the older woman clean after his messes. "I am not your housekeeper, dear." Mrs Hudson corrected but despite her words she kept setting things straight. "John you have a meeting in ten minutes, you should maybe consider getting more decent." Sherlock said, surprising him with at straight gaze right at his eyes. John was suddenly dazzled, mesmerized by that blue, the Sherlock broke the spell by lifting the magazine up to cover his face.

John was still so stunned that it took him a moment to realise what the annoying flatmate want to be had actually said. "Excuse me, what? A meeting, with whom? When?" "You, meeting, ten minutes, didn't you hear me?" was the answered he get from behind the magazine. Now that he looked at it, he realised it was new. And the year really seemed to be 2012. That could be fake but...The line just above Sherlock slender fingers caught his attention. Horrifying cases of Brutal suicides might have a new turn. In the light of new evidence they might be investigated as murders...? "Well dear, I think you can't quite meet important government man in your underwear, right?" Mrs Hudson said interrupting his thoughts, and making him embarrassed for spacing out again.

"Yeah, umh.. I guess you are right." John muttered and backed up into his room. There was something really strange about that man. Something in his eye's, that suggested you back the hell of. He was the one who had called him subject. "What is it with you, and your attraction of danger John Watson?" He questioned from himself. He should just dislike the guy, not be dazzled by him. When he got out of his room, fully dressed in clothes that were his, from his old apartment, feeling kind of violated somehow, there was a strange man in their doorway. Sherlock stood in front of him, and they were obviously in the middle of conversation. John didn't want to intrude so he stayed back and gazed at the new man.

He was tall, about the same height as Sherlock, he had that kind of an face that made him look reliable, and the slight greyness in his short hair added hint of dignity, and he knew how to carry himself. John felt almost immediate relate to the man somehow. There was a flinch in the corner of Sherlock's eye's that told John that Sherlock had registered his presence.

"We won't be drinking tea Mrs. Hudson, but I might need something to eat when I get back." Sherlock said. "Not your housekeeper." woman replied, which made Sherlock just say, that something cold would do. He pulled on a black jacket, making john wonder where he might be going. "Lestrad, meet John. I trust you are able to HANDLE it from here." Sherlock called out on his way out to the door. He had the kind of tone in his voice that made John think that he had just missed good joke, which he should have unknown man turned, looked at him after Sherlock had disappeared and smiled, greeting offering his hand for a shake.

"Greg Lestrad, nice to meet you." John took his hand feeling a bit uneasy, but that melted away quite fast. Lestrad didn't look at him like he was something violating the laws of nature, he had the feeling he would like this man. "This must feel like quite a circus, don't worry, it definitely won't get any easier, but you kind of get used to it."

Before he really even noticed he was sitting in some, quite fancy looking room, with Mycroft Holmes and another person he hadn't met before. Tall woman with a good posture on Mycroft's left caught his attention. She was quite pretty, with her fair, dark skin and tight curls that reached her shoulders. Her hair colour reminded John of coffee. Lestrad had taken a stand behind him, by the door. "I'd like to assume that you know why you are here John, but knowing my brother I ought to know better." Mycroft started, breaking the silence.

John hadn't really paid attention, but he guessed he should have noticed that the man before him and Sherlock were siblings. Now that he really thought about it, they had the same way to elongate the words. John almost blushed when he realised there had been a question directed to him in that sentence.

"No. I don't know why I'm here..." When the words were out of his mouth, he suddenly had a feeling that his "flatmate" might have said something that should ring the bells, but Mycroft was already in the middle of sighing and starting to explain, so he felt no need to correct his words."Your body has been property of this department for two years, the fact that you are now alive does not change the fact, but it demands some new actions from us. In other words, you need someone to supervise you." John listened quietly, and he didn't like it. And yes, now he did remember Sherlock mention this yesterday. Since the only woman in the room was the one he had been eyeing before, he had to assume she would be his handler. And he was also aware of the fact that fighting against this, would be in vain. They were right, he had nothing out there in the real world. His family had said their goodbyes to him, there he was death. He was alive here, but that "error" could be corrected if it was found as a disturbance he was sure of that, and no one would miss him.

So, John tried to get a smile on his lips when he offered his hand toward the woman. "Nice to meet you, my name is subject 01, but I would much appreciate if you'd call me John. "He wasn't sure if sarcasm was a wise move, but hey, he was only human. Mycroft looked very pleased, when he said, "I see you are quick in your head, that is a good feature. "He nodded to the woman, which had just stared at John's hand up until now.

When received permission she took a firm hold of Johns hand, it was a good handshake. John wanted to believe he would be able to get along with her. "Sally Donovan." He observed the situation, staying quiet, when all other in the room had conversation about details of his handling. He received few pieces of information at least; like that Greg Lestrad seemed to be Sally's supervisor or something like that.

And apparently they were in London, and Elizabeth was still their queen. Small things that somehow made him feel better and worse at the same time. When he stood up from his chair, to Follow Sally that had been asked to move out with Lestrad, assuming he should follow them. Miss Donovan stopped him, by pressing him back on his seat by the shoulder. They were left alone in that room, with was somehow intimating. Mycroft leaned against the table to gaze at him, and John suddenly felt very naked. "I understand why my brother chose you as his subject, he has his way with the words, I'm sure you will notice if you haven't by now." John kept quiet, cause he really didn't now more proper way to act in this situation. "What I don't understand is his interest in you. As you might have noticed, you have quite fast been moved into quite, shall we say, intimate part of his live.

Because of his request I will allow you to live with him, and don't lock you up like I should. Be worth of my trust, will you?" Man said, and the seriousness in his eyes was unmistakeable. John nodded again; it seemed to be right kind of reply with this man. Mycroft smiled again.

"I really think I might like you. I have an offer for you, keep an eye on him for me would you, that could make your being here much more pleasant. Cause you see, he makes me worry about him, constantly." John nodded again, and kept his mouth shut. "A man more easily fooled, might lead to think that you respect me for the fear, but danger does not alarm you. I can see that you are perfectly calm, even if your situation must be more, than stressful." Mycroft suddenly leaned even closer toward him over the table, John wasn't quite following the way his mind moved, but he was sure it was on it's way to some clear point.

"You miss it, the war that killed you. It got into your bones, and your blood, it's part of your being now." When he heard the words it made sense, the way he had been able to kind of adapt to all that was going on, his mind was still on the battlefield. "I guess you can see it in his eye's, and it attracts you." Yes, yes it did. Lestrad stayed with Mycroft when Sally came to get John and walked him out. "This is a huge opportunity to me, and I hope to get along with you, cause that will make things easier for the both of us. But, that isn't necessary, I can also, not, get along with you, and I promise that won't be pleasant." Woman said as soon as they were private enough for no one to hear. Her words weren't a threat; it was like simple statement of facts.

John just nodded, and they understood each other. "You may call me Sally, John." Those words made John think that she really wasn't that bad.

* * * "Booored. Can we just say that I am perfectly healthy with my abnormal intelligence? We have gone this trough hundred times over the years, really why bother?" Sherlock muttered, seemingly sulking and rolled around with his chair. Andersson, the man with sly face that hold few kind of fox like features sighed, placing his hands on the table in front of him. "Sherlock I hope that you would even try. You are making this very unpleasant for the both of us." He tried, with disgustingly sweet voice, which always made Sherlock frown. His answer was, "no thank you." He had never seen the point of why Mycroft forced him to come, and pretend that he could ever have even a half of real conversation with this annoying behaviour psychologist, with so ridiculously slow brain function that it really wasn't even funny anymore. Then again, he and Mycroft had never shared the same sense of humour. Now that he though about it, that twisted sense of humour might have been the exact reason for his archenemy to choose Sally as his subjects handler. He had tried to behave, but since Andresson seemed to show off his doings.. "You know, I do have something I need you to sort out with me." Sherlock said, getting Andersson interest. "I have tried and tried, but I can't figure it out. "He kept going, making a troubled expression on his face.

The man on the other side of the table smiled, like he really would have wanted to help. "Do tell, "He encouraged. "I help the best I can, that is why I'm here." Sherlock almost slipped out of his role right there, really, who could be that dump?Easily lead by the nose, like a bull after castration.

"Why won't you just leave your wife? I bet even she knows what is going on with Donovan. Cause you two really can't hide our doings, I am not even sure are you trying." Sally had almost placed her hand on the door handle, still explaining about the simple behaviour test that Mycroft had demanded just for the sake of his goodnight sleep.

When it opened and Sherlock stood in front of them. Now John was confused. Was Sherlock the psychologist? "Well hello freak" Sally said with a sour shade in her voice. "Always lovely to see you sally. Would you mind cheering Adrresson up a little, he seemed to get little down when I mentioned you, in almost same sentence with his wife." Sherlock lifted his gaze from sally's face and winked his eye at John, again, dazzling him for a moment. "I see you at our flat, I might have need for the doctor in you, if you are interested of course." Man said to him as he passed by.

John really tried not to look after him, but he failed miserable."Always the same, no matter what is tried for his shake, he just throws it away. He isn't normal, and someday he will just snap, marks my words. "His handler muttered. John looked back at Sally; irritation was so clear on her face that it almost humoured John, which made no sense. "I don't think that..." There was clear pause, which in Sally most likely decided to call the man by his last name. "Andresson is in a right state of mind to take in patience now. You can go." When John turned around to leave, Sally called after him. "I say this, even if it is probably too late by now, but stay as far away from Sherlock Holmes as you possible can." It probably made more than just sense. Now that he tough about it, everyone he had met had been seemingly normal despite the situation they had got to know each other, even Mycroft, but Sherlock seemed different from them. Still, John found him fascinating, maybe it was the same instinct that pulled owlet moths toward the flame. He should stay away from Sherlock Holmes, but he was quite sure he wouldn't be able to do that, and if he even wanted to try. It couldn't have been more that few minutes ago when Sherlock had disappeared behind the corner, but John wasn't able to get even a tiniest limp of the man, no matter how hard he gazed to every possible direction.

Cursing those freakishly long legs of the other man, that were clearly the cause of this mystical disappearance, John headed to the there where he tough remembered coming from. After almost an hour of headless wondering hunting down tails of direction, John was forced to admit that this place was annoyingly over exaggerated, and that he was more or less, lost. His ability to navigate toward destination almost unmistakeable accuratedly, by using landmarks or stars on the side of the compass, was good for nothing skill here. He couldn't quite understand why Sally had left him wonder in here alone. Not that he could escape or something, all the door he figured led even on the way of outside, and most of the others were protected by a pass code. Maybe she had been so upset together with that Andresson person, that she hadn't really paid attention.

Now that he was walking anyway, he had some time to think again. All of this still made no sense, even if he tried to ensure himself that it kind of did. He didn't know a thing about people, or what was going on here, Only things he had been told were, that he was some freaking subject with no human rights, and that he would be living with Sherlock Holmes. And what exactly was Sherlock here? Since his brother was in charge of this place, he must be important.

John assumed he was also a doctor, surgeon most likely judging by his hands, they looked like the hands of surgeon. And he had that intelligent brightness in his eyes. So a researcher? Since he lived in a same flat with he subject, which still made no sense to him. His fingers were again wiping over the end of the scar, the doctor in him was highly interested in this operation, he felt like med student again, when everything about medicines had been great, important and big.

He was curious, and even the parts he really didn't want to know about, demanded answers, so John decided, he would pull the information out of that skinny, strange fellow, and he would do it nicely or he could even risk it a little and be... Not nice. But first of all he needed to find the freaking flat. He finally gave in, and picked up the phone Sally had gave him, it had a secured line, and every call he'd made would go trough their own system, so he wouldn't be able to call to someone they didn't want to allow him to get in touch with. But he figured he would be quite able to reach his handler, and ask for instructions. 


	3. Study on heart: Deduction

"Got lost?" Yes that was definitely the thing he first wanted to hear, when he finally made it home, John kept from answering and just walked further in, dropping himself to his armchair and closing his eye's. He figured he should be little tired after a walk that long, but no, he was actually fine. Really, he had been in coma, it should effect muscle function, why did he seem to be in even little better shape than before?

"I didn't quite think you would be that stick headed for your manly pride." Sherlock said, really enlonging the words, making John wonder was he trying to be annoying on purpose, or was it something he just couldn't help. "Yes, I am just teasing you. I know that you just didn't want to be troublesome. I told Mycroft that he shouldn't pick a woman as your handler, you may have troubles relying on her because you reflect your problems with your sister to all woman, well it eases a little with older ones."

Johns eye's shoot at the man, "Was it fun going trough my whole life? I don't think we are on the same line here, since I haven't read your file." He said frowning. He knew that he should probably get used to people knowing about his personal life and history, but he just couldn't help the feeling that he had been violated somehow. Sherlock seemed amused, and John had to really hold back that he didn't jump up and hit the other man, he was already looking best possible angle for the impact. Maybe chin, definitely not cheekbones, he didn't want to broke his fingers.

"That is where you are wrong, but I won't bother to prove it since you most likely wouldn't believe me. Denial is very common reaction." Then Sherlock stopped looking at him like he was some interesting painting, or something and actually looked him in the eyes. Suddenly he wasn't angry anymore.

Different collection of shades today, really, John could have sworn that he saw stars in there, in the imaginary sky of that gaze. Then Sherlock suddenly jumped up from the couch. When illusion broke, John suddenly realised he had been holding his breath.

He was just about to gather himself mentally, when a newspaper landed on his lap. When he gazed at it he realised it was the same Sherlock had been reading earlier. "Page twelve." And he turned into that obediently; at the moment he'd rather do anything that look into Sherlock's eyes again.

He hardly had time to read half of the page when the named man started talking. "You agree with me right?" He said with appealing shade in his voice. "What? Agree with you? Inspector Lestrad, Is he a cop?" Now John was totally out, it kind of made sense tough.

"Of course he is a cop, so is Sally. Handling isn't a full day job, and we need allies in the Scotland Yard, but that isn't relevant, didn't you read any of it? The suicides, they are obviously murders, I don't know why Lestrad needed three people to die before taking my word for it." Sherlock started with a lecturing kind of voice. John stared at him, well, the cop thing made sense.

"So.. You are the nameless consult behind the newest theory this magazine talks about?" John asked, suddenly realising the fact. What the hell was this man? Sherlock looked at him, like he was surprised how slowly John's brains seemed to take in information. "Well.. You have been dead for two years.." Man said, excusing him for being clueless.

"There have been three murders, that were originally investigated as brutal suicides, because victims had killed themselves. What connects all of them, is the way they did it. Every one of them was perfectly normal, working citizen, suddenly they disappeared and when they appear again they abuse their heads until they died. They all managed to dig most of their brains out before dying. "Sherlock looked at him, and John avoided the meeting of their gazes by lowering his back to the paper.

"So what makes you think they are murders? They could just all be... Oh." He lifted his head, surprised by his sudden realisement; he sawed the edge of Sherlock mouth switch upwards into a little grin. "You got it didn't you?" John was almost distracted by the perfect shape of those lips, almost. "You said, perfectly normal, and no normal human is able to endure so much pain that they could hurt themselves like that."

"And they all had over average jobs, in which many people are able to observe you daily, and a family. If no- one manages to see symptoms of a psychoses break that leads into a fatal self-harming, we must assume that they didn't have that utterly rare syndrome. And not single one of them could have been able to use drugs that could cause such side effects, with out at least someone knowing. Once you have eliminate the impossible, what ever remains must the truth. So murder it is. " Sherlock finished for him. "Feels good to use your brains doesn't it?"

John could just nod, he was amazed. "You, you are brilliant." He sorted out. Now Sherlock looked surprised, like he hadn't expected compliments. Suddenly John realised that if Sherlock was able to manage that kind of deduction, he may have not read the file, cause he didn't have to.

"Brilliant? Do you really think so?" came almost awkward question. "Yes, that was quite extraordinary." John replied, frowning in confusement. "Isn't that what people always say to you?" Sherlock made a soft laugher at Johns question. "No, definitely not. If I say that Sally is closer to the kindest edge would that be enough description?"

It made sense now that he though about it, that was what people were like. "So, why did you share this great deduction with me?" He realised to ask, and once he asked that, he suddenly remembered that he also had a whole lot of other kind of questions to ask from this man.

"I think better out loud, and Mrs Hudson moved my skull, and now I can't find it." Sherlock replied and made a sulking expression, which for some reason looked kind of cute. "So, I am substitute for a skull? Flattering." He sighed and lifted the magazine up to read the headline again; really it was just an excuse to hide from his own, rather focusing thoughts. A skull?

John kept the paper in front of him, as he time after time stole a little glimpse of Sherlock over its pages. Other man had been laying down on the sofa after their talk, and just moment ago he had started playing with his phone. John had to admit that he was kind of curious to learn what made Sherlock mutter like that, and occasionally there was a smile on his lips.

"Let me see your phone." Came sudden request just when John wasn't looking, for change. "What can you possibly want with my phone? You clearly have one of your own." He muttered, but picked it from his pocket anyway. "Send a text to Lestrads number, that he can come get me when the corpse arrives to the morgue."

John lifted his eye's to stare at the other man. After few seconds came a question, "Why aren't you typing?" Sherlock's phone was still on his fingers, and he gazed intensively the small screen. "Why aren't you using your own phone?" John asked, and wondered just why did he start to type the message. "No need to waste my capacity to that when you are here, I have more important things to use my brains into." John just figured that it was most likely so, and didn't even bother to ask just how did Sherlock know that he had Lestrad's number in there. He figured it was all just a matter of deduction.

It took less than half an hour, that Lestrad was there, standing on the doorway, and greeting John familiarly. But it had felt like a whole day, full of frustrating wait. Sherlock had fell back into his word where John didn't seem to exist at all, it was really hateful to try and question a wall, and expect it to answer. John tried hard not to show it to Lestrad.

"Excellent, now let's go." Sherlock said cheerfully and jumped up from the sofa, great, now he was suddenly alive again. John watched the man pull his long, black coat on, and tie a blue scarf around that long, as equally pale neck as all of his skin was, and he felt a little pinch of jealousy. He wouldn't be able to go outside.

He stood up and headed toward the kitchen, thinking about pouring himself a nice cup of tea to comfort himself trough this, when he was suddenly stopped by Sherlock's questioning voice. "Where are you going?" John turned around feeling pit annoyed. "I thought about drinking some tea, why?" He tried not to get his hopes up, but he guessed he kind of did.

"Well, you can do that, or you could come with me. You are a doctor right, and I am on my way to do an autopsy, could have some use for pare of capable hands." Sherlock said with a tone, that clearly told John, that the other man had no idea that in the current state John was in, that request felt same as if the had just offered him the world. "God yes."

Lestrad didn't seem to agree. "Sherlock, You know I can't. Just taking you is already..." Sherlock just spoke on top of the other man, forcing him to listen. "You need me, and I just said I might need John, I don't see a problem there." Letrad didn't look too convinced, he kept shaking his head.

"Mycroft will not allow this. And his handler.." John was almost holding his breath while he listened the two men argue. God he was happy that Sherlock was on his side on this, or more fitting would be to say, that Sherlock was on his own side, but their advance seemed to bee mutual. Either way, he was glad that Sherlock was with him, not against him.

"Don't you worry about Mycroft, I can take care of him." Sherlock stated, and just walked past the other man. Lestrad sighed heavily when the turned to look at John. "Well put your coat on, we are in a rush." Man said, and no matter his resistance before, he smiled. John knew it hadn't been personal, and his feeling of victory wasn't that either. "Is it always like this?" John asked. Lestrad just laughed unhappily. "Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and I hope that one day, if we are lucky, he might even be a good one."

Well John wasn't quite decided. He had had a nice lungful of seemingly fresh air, and been able to stare out of the window for good twelve minutes, relieved, surprised and kind of disappointed of how exactly the same everything seemed to be out there, on the streets of London. To return the point, he wasn't quite sure was it worth it.

Sally gave him poisonous looks over Lestrads shoulder, she wasn't able to question her boss, but oh, John was sure he would be hearing about this. He sincerely hoped that physical punishments weren't in favour in this system. He just tried to be small, and look innocent.

"This doesn't have to be a problem Sally, please don't make it into one. Sherlock has already done his thing, I sent him pictures of the crime scene and the victim, he will only take a quick look at the body, and we are on our way back." Lestrad said with a calm voice. Sally wanted to question him, but she had the sense of not to do so. "Why does the freak need to see this body? Pictures have been quite enough up until now."

John looked at Sherlock, now realising what the man had been up to with his phone. Sherlock didn't seem to hear the argue or he just didn't mind it the tiniest pit, he laid on the metallic table, that was usually used to wash delivered corpses from blood and dirt before opening them up and patching back together. John find that disturbing, as well as the arguing here, he had always thought that deaths had deserved their rest, others didn't seem to share his thoughts.

Lestrad placed his hand on the other table, that had clearly just delivered corpse on it, only few feet away from the one that was currently serving as Sherlock relaxing spot, trying to get the other mans attention. "Could you please explain to her the same you told me? If you are still capable to think after that nicotine overdose." He sighted. Yes, Sherlock had placed three nicotine patches on his left arm right after they had gotten in, and before he had fallen into coma on that table, and Sally had arrived. And when questioned, he had just said, "This is a three patch problem."

"She would know the reason if she tried and used her brains on something. Or maybe she is too busy with her uncontrollable libido that makes her attack a married, really unattractive man." Sherlock paused after that, as if waiting how Donovan would react. She kept her face even, but her hand curled into a tight fist against her thigh. Sherlock seemed quite satisfied with that and he jumped up from the table, making somehow graceful turn over the other table were John assumed laid the body of the latest victim.

Sherlock unzipped the back, pulling it open to reveal a body of a blond, still fully clothed woman, delivered straight from the scene. "Just look at her, you can't miss the difference to the other victims unless you are blind." Man said, expecting everyone in the room see what he was seeing. "Oh.. It must be really boring in those funny little brains." He said, after realising that they didn't see.

When Sally and Sherlock were busy with changing insulting glares and Lestrad trying to keep things under order, so that the morgue wouldn't soon contain one, quite fresh body, John took a daring step closer to look at the body. At first glance he just pitied her, then he remembered what Sherlock had said earlier when they had had that conversation. "Her head." He mumbled with out really realising that he head said it out loud, until he noticed that all the eyes were on him.

Sherlock's face seemed to brighten up, when he turned his eye's on John, who, now little wiser, dodged the gaze by looking back down at the corpse, he couldn't afford to be dazzled here in front of witnesses. "Well that is a pleasant surprise, someone is actually listening and learning. Keep going John." Man encouraged him, something in his tone made John feel like he was going to blush.

"Well.. Umh, that what connects the victims, putting aside the disappearance before death is that they die in a self caused head trauma." Lestrad and Sally looked at him kind of suspiciously. But he kept going. "This woman's head has only been violated by a light impact, and it clearly isn't self caused." John kept lifting his gaze toward Sherlock when he struggled, kind of asking for support, man just nodded at him to keep going. "She didn't die in a head trauma, like the others, and wasn't killed either, it looks like she fell from somewhere, and the cause of death seems to be.."

That was where Sherlock interrupted him. "Well done John, Letrad should hire you instead of miss Donovan. He shouldn't pick employers by their looks." Letrad was forced to place a hand on Sally's shoulder to keep her calm. "I think that is enough, we'll be just outside, try to be quick." Lestrad sighed with a suffering expression, and lead Sally out.

"Are you always so nice to people?" John asked sarcastically. The left corner of Sherlock's mouth jumped upwards a little, John had noticed that was repeating gesture. "I just needed them to leave us alone, and think that it was their idea. People never really question their own decisions until it's too late to do something about, have you noticed?" Sherlock asked, and invited John to come closer. He thought about mans words, realising they were pretty much true, and approached. And now, he felt like a dog.

"I deed you to open her head for me. I'd say just above her right ear." Sherlock said, moving woman's hair aside with his fingers. Sure he could do that, but he was getting tired of simply obeying every word with out getting almost nothing out of it. "And why do you want me to do that?" He asked. Sherlock looked at him browns frowning under confusion Johns question had caused, so before Sherlock had time to assume him as an idiot, he reshaped his question. "Tell me about this deduction. I'd like to hear it." That was all he needed to say.

"She disappeared late at yesterday night, and was found death early in the morning, in front of the building she worked in. She had jumped down from the roof, so you were right when you said she didn't die in a head trauma, she died when impact broke her ribs that then pierced trough her internals. Which I believe you were about to say moment ago. Now, no-one didn't seem to be able to tell that there was plenty of things that didn't fit in the pattern, because details went close enough, just another victim. But I realised, that she was about to be the victim, that would be the solve of this case."

John wasn't able to tear his eyes off of the man as he explained his thinking to John. "Brilliant." He muttered, causing Sherlock to give him another surprised glance, before he went on.  
"Hair, nails, clothes, make up, a really self-conscious woman, but there is more to this kind of meticulousness, than just the simple want to look good, it's about her job. Something were she is seen, where people can judge her appearance. All the cuts in her clothes say professional and all the shades say, fashion, new trends, so, something on the media, obviously, I'd say newsreader."

"Amazing..." John muttered looking down at the body again, all that he would be able to say about this corpse would be the way she died, but Sherlock, Sherlock unlocked her life with a few glances. Simply, amazing, and at the same just more reasons for him not to like this man. "Is there more?" He asked.

"Are you aware that you speak out loud?" Sherlock wondered, "It's fine though... So media, that tells us that she was aware of the murders, most likely investigating them. So when she was suddenly facing the murder herself, she knew she would die, and since she was investigating the case, she knew just how it would happen. She was smart, she knew what police lacked that they weren't able to catch the murderer, the murder weapon, the thing that makes these people kill themselves, and she knew it was now inside her. What would you do if you were her?"

John turned to look at him, "I would kill myself, before, what ever it is, inside me would make me do it." Sherlock nodded. "And that is why, you are going to open her head. It is there, the key to solving this case, the key to end these killing. It's in her head John."

They didn't prepare the body, actually there was no "them" since Sherlock just stood there, watching, letting John do all the dirty work. Even if they rushed to see what would be in there, John still wanted to cut her head open as nicely as he could, there would be relatives wanting to bury her, and he wasn't going to let them with slaughtered piece of death meat. He had seen too much that kind of cases back in the battlefield.

Sherlock watched his hands move, and it felt good, good to do something with his hands, even when it wasn't saving someone directly. John gently showered the blood away from the hair, lifting them so that the hole he had drilled would be nicely visible. Sherlock picked a magnifying glass from his pocket and leaned closer, with a scalpel between his pale fingers.

Now it was John's turn to watch him, and nothing the matter that he was poking a death woman's body in a morgue, he was... Just then Sherlock frowned unsatisfied and pulled back, luckily interrupting John's thoughts. "Nothing?" He asked, even when the answer was written in Sherlock's face. "We need to look deeper, you need to cut of the top of her skull that I will get a cleared view."

John was just about to get to work, wondering were had Sherlock got this wrong, and might there be other things that hadn't quite kicked all the way to the goal, when Sherlock suddenly shoot over the table again. The water that was running toward the sink at the end of the table, wetting corpses clothes on it's way, seemed to caught his interest. John stopped to follow his actions, what had he seen now? What had he realised.

Then he seemed to catch it, that something he had looked for, he lifted it up, and gazed it trough his magnifying glass. "What is it? How did you know?" Johns questioned, figuring that he wouldn't have to cut off the top of her head now. "Is that it?" He walked next to Sherlock, wanting to see what he was holding.

"Sometimes you don't have to search deep to find what you are looking for, and they might be washed down by the river" Sherlock said, and that time his words made no sense to John, but he lowered his hand reaching it toward Johns face. In the bright, pale lights of the morgue it was clearly visible. A tiny, black thing, like a trash no bigger than a pinhead, on the palm of Sherlock's hand. When he looked even closer, it had kind of spider like shape. "Yes John, this is it."

When John asked what it was, still suspicious it wasn't just a random trash, Sherlock spaced out totally for few minutes, totally lost in his thoughts. "Well.. I better go tell Letrad that we are ready." John suggested, and then Sherlock pulled something silverfish out of his pocket, placing the trash thing carefully inside it. Then he put his magnifying glass, and the silverfish, hand mirror kind of thing into that pocked at pulled his coat on. "Well if you are going to tell them that would you mind waiting few minutes to give me some head of?"

"Head of.. What are.." Sherlock was already going to another door at different direction from the one that Sally and Letrad were behind it, that had electromagnet lock on it. Johns dashed to catch him throwing away the blood rampart. "What the hell are you doing? That door is.." John was forced to eat the words he didn't even have the time to say, that Sherlock wouldn't be able to open this door. When the pointed man just pulled a pass card and opened it. The card had some woman's face on it, John recognised it to be the one who had lead them here in the first place. "Did you steal that?"

"I pickpocket annoying people sometimes, never know what useful things you may find. If you are going to join me you might want to pick up your jacket with you, we are in London, it rains here." Sherlock pointed out, like he was inviting him for a little afternoon walk before afternoon tea. John just stood there, looking at the man holding door open for him. Was he mad? John was government research material, there were agents to dash after them at the second they would notice their missing.

"Might be dangerous." Sherlock said, with his eye's flingering, and then John picked up his jacked and followed him, thinking just that the hell with this. And when he passed Sherlock, before the other man turned to pull the door close after them, he was sure he sawed a smile on those lips.


	4. Study on heart: Flirting with danger

"Having second thoughts?" Asked a soft, deep voice, tearing him away from the blankness inside his head, as he just plainly stared out of the cab window. John turned to look at the man who had just spoken. Again, feeling almost irresistible urge to hit that too flashy face, hard. "I might have just killed myself, so why, why would you think that?" He asked, and the sarcasm could almost be sawn from his sentence with bare eyes.

"Don't worry, you won't be killed, they wouldn't dare to do that to my subject." Sherlock replied, and John thought that he might have meant his words to be comforting. They weren't. "Very nice of you... You know, if I survive from this, you own me few explanations" John demanded, turning to look at Sherlock's way. Man didn't react, and that pissed him of so much." Could you please even tell me who is my surgeon? Mycroft told me he might give some answers." Every time he tried to get some information out about himself, man turned into a brick wall.

"What is it with your kleptomaniac habits anyway, let me see your pockets" He asked and reached his hand toward the closest one. He was stopped with a quick, firm hold of Sherlock hand." I wouldn't do that if I were you. Pulling out a gun in a moving cab, might cause an accident." He said in a quiet tone, just enough for John to hear. "A gun?... " He asked, pulling his hand back, suddenly realising that that just now, had been the first time they had touched, and why was he even knowledging the fact. "Yes John, a gun. I assume soldier would know what that is."

Suddenly the cab stopped, driver turned to look at them trough the glass, telling that with the money they had bayed, he wouldn't be driving them any further. Sherlock stood out from the cab with out a word. John followed him right after thanking the driver. On a first glance he noticed that they were quite in the middle of London, and then he had to dash after Sherlock, cause the man had a bad habit to disappear.

"What are we doing now? Why are we here?" He questioned, trying to keep up with Sherlock, who didn't seem to pay any attention to the difference between the height of their legs, and how it effected to the speed of walking, and he called himself a scientist "Let's have dinner, you must be hungry since you are so grumpy." John almost stopped in the middle of one step, "Dinner?.."

It seemed to happen too often with this guy, but again, before he even noticed it, he was sitting on a corner table, near big window, in a nice Italian restaurant, and across the table sat Sherlock. "What the hell is the meaning of this? If you tell me that I risked my life just that you could have dinner I swear I will..." His threat didn't get further when Sherlock interrupted him. "We might have a long wait ahead of us, so you may as well eat. I know you are hungry."

Just when the words had left Sherlock's lips, a tall, big man stood next to their table, ready to take their order. "So what can I get to you and your date?" He asked with a deep, operatic voice. John lifted up the menu to look what he would take, cause he really was hungry, damn that man for being right, when he realised what had just been said. "Wait, he isn't my... We aren't" He rushed to correct, but the man just winked his eye to him. "Naah, I get it I get. I'll get a candle for you, it's more romantic. I like your kinds, so I'll give you our special, on the house." And then he already dashed away, leaving John wordless.

Sherlock looked too calm, almost Forcing John to ask. "This... This isn't a date, right?" Sherlock tore his gaze away from the view of the window, and looked at him over together pressed fingertips. "No.." Then that big Italiano was back with the candle. John tried to correct him again, but it was no use. "Why isn't this troubling you? Don't you have girlfriend or something?" John asked, feeling pained by the situation. And after asking, he admitted to himself that he maybe was kind of curious.

Sherlock frowned. "Why should I care what he thinks? And no, girlfriends aren't really my area.." He replied turning his eyes back to the window. Again, leaving John kind of empty handed, and confused. Then Sherlock's words got to him. Girls, not his area. Johns eye's jumped on Sherlock's face, that form of sentence, it couldn't be meaning?

The light of the candle and the one coming in from the window, shops and passing cars, in the darkening evening made strange shadows on Sherlock's face. Really, he just didn't like it, even when he knew that most people would find it attractive, beautiful even. John shook his head to stop thinking that, what was wrong with him. "okay.. So.. Boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way." Now that he tough about it, maybe Sherlock had gayish features.

Sherlock looked at him again, and he had little irritated look on his face." I know it's fine, and no, I don't have one." John nodded, "Okay, we are both alone, that is good." when the words left his mouth he realised it had came out wrong.

That blue eye's flickered on his face, studying him. "John... you should know that even if I am flattered by your interest, I consider myself married with my work and I am not looking for any kind of.." John lifted his hand up, shaking his head." No, no I wasn't suggesting.." And of course their food was served right then.

John tried to hide behind eating, and at least Sherlock didn't talk to him or even look at him after their little... Misunderstanding. Soon John noticed that the other man wasn't eating, or even poking at his food. "This is kind of good, you should try it, and while you do that you could explain me the reason behind this, you know, all this." Sherlock didn't turn to look at him this time. "Metabolism slows me down." He replied, like that was the most reasonable explanation to everything.

John waited, still kind of annoyed that Sherlock wouldn't eat, and after a while, like he had expected, Sherlock started to speak. "They all disappeared from the same area, on hours close to each other, from a busy streets, in a broad daylight, and no-one, not in a single case, was able to say that they had witnessed a kidnap. Do you know why that is?" John shook his head. "Are you suggesting it was an invisible car?" He joked, eager to hear more.

"I like the way you think sometimes." Sherlock said, it sounded like a praise. "It had to be someone, they all trusted if they went into a strangers car voluntarily, and it has been proved that they didn't have same connects, they didn't know same people, and one of them was even from another town entirely. Do you know how to connect these dots?" Sherlock asked, and now looked at him.

"No, I don't but you do." He replied, and the other mans smiled to him. "Yes, I do. A stranger we all trust, even when we are on our most vulnerable states, lost, drunk, tired... a invisible car, that no-one can recall to see..." Sherlock just looked at him, like waiting for his excitement, this urge to know grow bigger." A London cab."

"So the murderer, is a cab driver?" John asked, again, amazed by Sherlock. Really, who could be able to think like that, it was simply, brilliant." But, there must be hundreds of them, how do you know which... Ohh. The time, and place."

Sherlock smiled again. "Like I said, I'm starting to like the way you think. Most people... They see but they don't observe, you, you almost manage it." John felt kind of pleased with himself for a while. "But. There are still too many possibilities, how do you know which one?"

"Only thing I need is to be in the right place at the right time... And of course, I have this." Sherlock said and picket up the silver hand mirror thing again. "You asked me what this is. It is advantaged technology, a robot in simple terms, this goes in, I figured injection would be most handy, so this is injected into the victims brain, it cuts into your nerve system, causing pain, that grown with every passing hour, and it uninstalls your basic instincts of self-protection." John could just stare... That kind of technology actually existed? "That is amazing.. But how does that help you to know who the murderer is?"

"This has a maintenance system in it. You wouldn't let this kind of technology just run away, they need to keep a tract on the victims to make sure they dig this out when they died. So the murderer... Will come to me." John lifted his gaze from the little devise into Sherlock's eyes.

It was so unbelievable clever, so brilliantly deducted, and so absolutely arrogant. "That...Is.. Are you crazy? Are we on that area? Just waiting the right time for him to come and get you?" He asked, with his voice full of question, hidden anger and amazement. Sherlock just nodded.

Sherlock pulled backwards, back to his seat, gazing out of the window, letting John stare at him. Yeah, this was the most dangerous rollercoaster ride of his live, and he hadn't enjoyed those rides even when he had been a kid, always more Harriet's thing. Then something suddenly occured to him from the depths of his confusement. "Sherlock... what am I doing here? And don't you dare to say that it is because you think better out loud, you had this all figured out before we even got here."

The named man suddenly tore his eye's from the street and moved the candle in the middle of their table to lift his long, dark coat on it's place. "What..?" Sherlock looked directly into his eyes. "They say woman's purse tells a lot about it's owner, would you say that same goes with the pockets of men's jacket? Stay foot John." After those confusing words he just walked past John. Leaving him with that amount of confusement, and his jacket, that it seemed to be paralysing.

Sherlock walked out of the restaurant, right at the moment he didn't think about his research, was he wrong or right about John, or when Mycroft would get after him. No, he hasn't been thinking quite anything on these last few hours, nothing, but HIM.

As he approached the cab that had been circling around the restaurant for good ten minutes before parking close by, and rejecting two customers. It couldn't be called to take someone, cause then it would have been claimed already. That pattern had gone through three times, but not with this, no, this was the one.

He was going it trough in his mind again, these killings, the traces, this nano machine, and he was sure. It was definitely HIM no-one else could possibly pull out something like this, no-one else, besides maybe himself, was capable of...His hand twitched, No, now wasn't the time.

He opened passengers door and sat in. The man, white haired, but still no older that just slightly above middle aged, in good, clean clothes that were bit outdated, didn't even turn to look at him, when he spoke. "Sorry, out of duty." Sherlock kept quiet, he knew he wouldn't have to say anything, observing the car, picture of two kids, well kept, but old.

He noticed a little shaving cream stain behind man left ear, before he turned around to look at the annoying intruder that didn't seem to hear his voice. "I said that I'm out of-" Rest of his words were almost swallowed by his surprise, when he saw the face of this intruder.

Sherlock smiled." Well, judging by your reaction, you have been told who I am, that makes things easier. I assume I don't need to explain to you why you aren't out of duty anymore." He said knowing his voice sounded all calm, even thought that wasn't what he was feeling. He hadn't been this close in a long time. They just looked at each other, this murderer, and him.

"Hand over your phone." Driver demanded after a while. Well, nothing that wouldn't be expected, this guy had to be little bit smarter than average to pull out something like he already had after all. Sherlock picket his phone from the pocket of his pants, he really didn't like to keep it there, and already missed his coat, offering it to the man, that surprisingly took a firm hold of his wrist and injected him with something. Well, he was smarter than just a little bit, and also very cautious, it seemed.

Basic humans instincts kicked in, trying to make him panic, but he fought against them with reasoning. There was no need to feel threatened, this man wouldn't kill him like this, not yet." that was unnecessary, I am willing to co-operate.." why did his voice sound so weird? Oh, so it wasn't just a normal relaxant, of course not, things never went by the easy way.

What ever was the thing he had been injected with it kicked in fast. Sherlock would have loved to analyse it, but he had not time when his body was suddenly loosing strength and his mind was filled with clouds, which on itself was interesting enough, and gave him just another clue that he was...

John couldn't believe his current situation and he wasn't even sure of all the details that had lead him here, but right now he was staring the screen of his phone like a hawk, and he was on a mission to safe a mental freaking genius from a trouble man had intentionally got himself into, either to solve a murder case, or just for his own fun. Yeah, wasn't he a real hero.

Half an hour ago he was left into a restaurant with nothing, and then everything had slowly fallen on its place. Those little hints, hidden in his sentences, the knowledge that Sherlock had planned this all with care. All from the landing the newspaper on his lap to the gun in the pocket of that coat. Damned be that man, and damned should he be himself for following this written play.

The spot he was tracking on his screen had stood still for good five minutes now, so John was closing up, hoping that Sherlock was still breathing, and he wanted to tell himself it was just because of his need to finally seriously hit that face. It would be so pleasant.

He asked the cab he was riding to leave him right here, about a block away from the spot, rest of the way he would walk. And oh, another convenient thing, also Sherlock's wallet had been in his pocket, he bayed and headed to the right direction, running.

He soon caught a glimpse of the cab, parked between two tall, school like buildings. He learned that the cab was empty, and what ever was sending the tracking signal was in the cab. Shit, he believed Sherlock hadn't planned this far. John gazed at the two building, figuring that by all means, they would be inside one of them, murderer and his genius. They had to be.

John went by chance and started running again, time, time was suddenly really important to him. He cared enough to rush, he realised. He texted the address to Lestrad's phone, he didn't have enough focus left to do more, he trusted they would come. Shit they had probably been looking all over.

Sherlock felt his head clear up a little when he was thrown to the floor; it was lovely solid and didn't spin. He had though that co-operation would spare him from this kind of things, he had been more that little of as the current state of things told him. He had been drove around and around, maybe trying to get him confused of were they were, it hadn't worked even if he was drugged.

He heard murderers laugh, when he tried to support his own weight to push himself up, failing more than once. "Look at you, helpless like a kitten. I could do anything I wanted with you... I can't see why he warned me about you, you are smart, but not that smart." He was being mocked.

"Moriarty..."Sherlock mumbled, putting aside what ever suggestion or threat there had been in mans words. He managed to stumble up, his legs felt weak and he automatically reached around, trying to get some support. "You are strong, that is surprising when you are so slim, all skin and bones." Was he spinning or was the man circling him?

Suddenly there was a hand, touching his back, sliding over it toward his neck, and then another curling around his waist. "I see, my assuming was right and your knowledge of each other is mutual. He told me not to kill you, but don't sight in releavement just yet, I have unpleasant thing in storage, that I need to do to you." Man whispered in his ear, so close that Sherlock could taste his breath and feel the breeze on his cheek, it was simply unpleasant sensation.

Cold fingers touched the skin on his neck, just before he was pulled again, and then he felt seat under him. That was nice. " You are dying... But that isn't why you are doing this, even tough you find it most proper way to use your time now days." Sherlock said, hating how fussy his voice came out.

Murder stopped his moving, turning to look at his way. Sherlock blinked the clouds away from his vision; inconveniently he wasn't able to shake them away from his head. "I see, maybe you are what he said you would be. You know, he said you would come to me, not with intention to catch me, but to get a trace of him. And it seems, you knew that, but you came anyway... Now what does that make you? A brave genius, or an idiot with little luck and too big ego?"

"To get here I needed to solve the way those people were forced to kill themselves, how you were able to commit kidnap with, at best thousand of witnesses around you, and not a single one able to know what they had just seen. And I sawed who was behind you, and that was putting it simple, now I wouldn't want to brag but." He left the end of the sentence hung in the air. Man smiled to him. "So you are all I mentioned."

"And you are a bored, dying little genius, being used by a big bad spider, letting his tangle you into his web out of... Love." Sherlock replied. Smile didn't leave that face, but it cracked. He took a quick step, lifting Sherlock's face up by an unnecessarily tight hold from his chin. And he took a picture with his phone. "You are right, you got that right mr Holmes, but it isn't going to save you."

Sherlock's eyes were on the phone, when man sent a picture to someone. A contact, a direct contact to Moriarty. It could have been just his habit of taking photo of his victims, but Sherlock sawed better, he was too lazy, mind too blurred to tell himself why he knew that, but he did. He needed to get that phone. Then the man was near him again, with a needle, now the shit had just got serious.

Sherlock yanked his head away from the mans hold, but he was still weak, he tried to lift his hands to push the man away, but he easily slapped them away, and throwing him from the chair on his back to the table next to it, very inconvenient.

"Be a good boy now, this isn't that same thing I injected into my victims brains, no, this is Moriarty's gift, made just for you. He didn't tell me what it would do, but let's find out together." Sherlock had an idea, and he wasn't going to face, it forming into reality, quietly. Shit... Maybe he had taken too many risks.

Suddenly there was this sound of broking glass, and blood, blood covering his face, and he was free from the hold of the murderer. Sherlock fell to the floor next to the gasphing, soon to be corpse. One glance told him that he had thrown his bet under favouring wind on other thing, but the other was going terribly wrong.

Sherlock found it utterly troubling to crawl near enough to the man. "Tell me, did you meet him? Everything you know about him? Tell me where Moriarty is?" He heard the desperation in his own voice as his only lead in years was floating away from his reach.

Man Laughed. "He wanted to see you... He is always, waiting for you... I think he..l-" It was hard to make any sense into the words as the man was drowning into his own blood. Before Sherlock could reach over the space between them to keep him at least few second further from death he was already gone.

He didn't waste time; he didn't probably have much of it left before the freaking army would catch up with him. He picket the phone from the mans pocket and called to the last used number.

"That was fast, where did you leave him?" Bright voice, self-assured, soft, all and everything he remembered it would be."Moriarty..."Sherlock said his name, he knew it would be enough, it would, of course give the man a better picture of things that what they really were, all for his benefit.

"Sherlock...Forgive me, I might have underestimated you. Consider this, as my way to say, "Hello, I'm back." Give your brother my best." Call ended with that, and Sherlock knew that this phone, this number, they came useless at the same.

No one had said a word to him, not Sherlock when he had went over to him after shooting the murderer. Not Lestrad, when they had arrived to the scene, not Sally when she had put him in a car, not Mycroft when he had caught a glance of the man, when he had been escorted to his "flat." Where he was still waiting.

John had walked in circles, more restless than he could remember ever been. He had just killed a man, but that wasn't it, he was most likely about to be killed for this himself, or but into a coma or something, but that wasn't making him restless either, which was scary. Or the fact that he didn't have a fucking idea what was going on, he had kind of been forced to get use to the feeling.

It was Sherlock, not directly his state, or what had happened before he had reached to window and sawn that the man was behind it in another building. He didn't know what it was, but it was Sherlock that made him restless, it had to be since that name kept jumping up from the storm of confusion that was raging in his head.

It must have been hours, feeling like days or even years, he didn't know, before the door opened, and Sherlock was standing there. John froze between step and just stared at him." You really don't stop to think, do you? You just go with what ever your heart tells you, and there I went, calling you smart." Sherlock stated and gazed at him, coldly.

When a man he had just risked everything for, thanked him like that, John realised just how much he disliked him, or how much he should have, disliked him, and the he realised something else. "How did you know I would come? That I wouldn't just try out my luck and run away?" He asked, looking straight back.

Sherlock seemed to be happy that he asked. "I didn't know, I had my suspicions, but I didn't know. That was the experiment, and you, my subject, performed a perfect result." Those words spelled a silence over them, leaving them with simple, in this case almost brutal eye contact." I hate you."

"No you don't, not yet. Follow me, I'll show you something." That Was Sherlock's reply to his outburst. And the man just turned his back, walking away, knowing that John would follow. They walked in white corridors, until they reached a door, that looked just like other before it, but that was the door.

Molly was behind it, standing in an x-ray room, full of picture, she had just turned the lights on. "Oh. Sherlock, I just got this ready." Sherlock didn't even look at her, just pointed the door, and Molly left, when she walked past John, she had pity in her eye's. He felt another burst of hatred toward the tall, pale man, for treating a nice person like Molly that way.

"Look at them mr Doctor." Sherlock commanded, pointing the x-rays around him and he looked. They were x-rays from a mans chest, mans who had broke two of his ribs in early age, and one more currently. He had healthy lungs, never smoke, and marks that looked like he had been shot, and a huge scars, and marks of a great heart surgery. And his heart...

John felt his mouth drop open. No matter how he looked at it, that heart, wasn't real, it wasn't biological. It looked like.. A Machine. He stepped closer, more like fell closer, just staring in simple amazement and horror once he first had a unbelievable thought, then it started to be supported by facts... No.

"As I assume you are starting to realise, Subject one, I am the surgeon you have been asking about, just like you had tough, and that, in the pictures. Is your heart, designed, build and operated into your chest, by me." John looked at the man as he spoke, and he just couldn't believe it, he didn't want to, he prayed god that it wasn't true. "Your heart, is a machine, artificial, perfect, beautiful creation beyond its time."

His head dropped with every word, and soon he was on his knees, tightly holding one x-ray in his trembling fingers. This was just too much, this wasn't happening, not really, cause it just couldn't be.

Sherlock stood over him, like some cruel god, looking down at him, with a slight wonder on his face as he simply studied his pain. He guessed that was what it had been all along, a study, study on his heart.


End file.
